


For Nothing

by Dragomir



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Gore, M/M, Twisted, bad things happen to people who don't deserve it, gul'dan's a twisted bastard and no one gets out sane, seriously this thing is fucked up and wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 03:59:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9159916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragomir/pseuds/Dragomir
Summary: Gul'dan wins.  Everyone suffers.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ausmac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ausmac/gifts).



> ......so, this is definitely the darkest thing I've ever written, and I'm slightly proud of this twisted, raging mess.

There is something amusing, Gul’dan thinks, about having one’s enemies laid low at your feet.  Or, perhaps, something _rewarding_.

The great chieftain of Stormwind – High Chieftain of his so-called “Alliance” is _his_.  His _Alliance_ is nothing more than a memory now, and the _Horde_ of this fel-blighted world has fallen too.  Their chieftains are dead or hunted, and there is _no one_ left who can oppose the might of the Burning Legion.  Gul’dan’s lips curl in a smile as he limps into the throne room of the defeated High Chieftain.  (High King, in the vulgar language of the small-teeth.)  The human chieftain is there, bound on his knees, like the mongrel he is.

Gul’dan’s smile grows wider when he sees the white pelt of the _other_ mongrel draped over the chieftain’s throne.  His demons had skinned _that_ one alive, while the High Chieftain watched.  (Wrynn hasn’t spoken since then.  Only threatening his pup has made the small-teeth react, and even then barely a flinch.)

He prowls around the bound, beaten, _broken_ chieftain, lips still curled around his tusks in a smile.  The chieftain’s blue eyes stare dully at the ground.  Every so often, his hands twitch and his bindings rattle against the frame he is bound to.  Gul’dan wonders what the broken chieftain is thinking about – lost in memories of kinder days, perhaps, or thoughts of dying like the mongrel whose pelt now adorns his old throne.  (Or just dying, and escaping the Legion in death.  As if Gul’dan would let him.)

One of his junior warlocks takes his staff and bows, backing away.  Gul’dan seats himself on the throne, legs outstretched.  He sighs, smirking as the beaten mongrel twitches.  He rubs his knee idly, still studying his captive.

“Your pup still breathes,” he says, dark amusement coloring his voice.  The mongrel twitches, head jerking up against the heavy collar keeping it down.  “My demons tell me he is a useful _slave_.”  Gul’dan chuckles darkly as the chieftain’s head drops again.  The defeated expression on the mongrel’s face is as sweet as it was when he had the other mongrel skinned for spitting on him.  “Tell me, chieftain, do you want to see him?”

That in itself is a kind of cruelty.  The mongrel’s head lifts again, and those blue eyes stare in Gul’dan’s direction.  The eyes are dull and unfocused, and Gul’dan remembers how the mongrel had screamed when his sight had been burned away.  The scars are an ugly red against his pale, dirt-streaked skin.  The mongrel’s expression is filled with anguish now, and the warlock is surprised his pet still has enough presence of mind to recognize the taunt for what it is.  He laughs as tears spill from the mongrel’s ruined eyes.

Gul’dan takes his staff back and limps to where the mongrel is bound.  He starts to circle the chieftain, trailing his hand over bruised, bloodied skin.  A hard press to a shoulder earns him a wounded noise – the mongrel’s learned not to bite back his terror:  It goes worse for him if he hides the pain.  Gul’dan pats the mongrel’s rump affectionately, and watches Wrynn’s sides heave in panic, flanks quivering.

“Useful thing, this,” Gul’dan muses, studying the frame his mongrel is bound to.  “A wolf would kill anyone who tried to tie it to one of these.  But you’re not a wolf, mongrel.”  He grins at the soft whimper from his pet.  “You’re a mongrel.”  He grabs a handful of the small-teeth’s dark hair and yanks the broken chieftain up to look at him.  “Say it, mongrel.”

“…I…” Wrynn manages, voice hoarse from screaming and dehydration.   “I-I’m…a…m-mon-…mongrel.”  Gul’dan lets go of the small-teeth’s hair and Wrynn’s head drops.  His broad shoulders have a defeated slump to them.

“And who do you belong to?” Gul’dan purrs, hands twisting around his gnarled staff.  It’s taken a very long time to train his mongrel to accept his new place, but it is worth it every time the small-teeth says the words.

“…y-you…m-ma- _master_ ,” the small-teeth whispers, voice tired and broken.  Gul’dan smiles again and pats the small-teeth affectionately.

“Good mongrel,” he says, tone affectionate.  His junior warlocks spread the white pelt on the ground behind Wrynn, and place a cushion there for Gul’dan to kneel on.  They withdraw, bowing, and shut the massive doors to the hall.  Gul’dan lowers himself onto the cushion with a groan.  His knees pain him, but the prospect of dominating his mongrel – again, and again, and _again_ , just to hear the delicious, _broken_ whimpers spill out of the small-teeth’s lips – is worth it.

The mongrel trembles as the warlock mounts him.  His chains rattle in time with Gul’dan’s thrusts, and, eventually, the pained cries start.  They echo loudly around the throne room, bouncing off the stone and glass.  The cries die off, replaced by dry, broken sobs as the former chieftain’s senses dull to the pain of being mounted like the dog he is.

Gul’dan grunts in satisfaction as he seats himself flush against the mongrel’s rump.  He’s defiled the former chieftain many times since his capture, and each time is as sweet as the first.  This, Gul’dan thinks, is the mongrel’s place:  Bound, on his knees, available for Gul’dan’s use.  Defiling him in the halls of his forefathers is just a bonus.  The warlock smirks at the tapestry depicting one of his mongrel’s ancestors, and finishes inside the mongrel with a satisfied moan.

He spreads the white pelt over his mongrel’s back before he leaves, and smiles as the sobs follow him out of the throne room.

**Author's Note:**

> I regret _nothing_.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Darkness Take My Soul](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9259733) by [ausmac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ausmac/pseuds/ausmac)




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